


Misgivings

by doomcanary



Series: Mis Adventures [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Other, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:10:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3069332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happy New Year, everyone!</p><p> </p><p>“I've overthought this.”<br/>“You don't say.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misgivings

“I've overthought this.”

“You don't say.”

Porthos is lying back on his scruffy double bed, easy and relaxed. As ever he is a sculpture without his shirt on; the warm light of the bedside lamp limns his torso in shadows, sparkles in his wickedly welcoming eyes. Mis is kneeling over him, too warm in his clothes and yet gripped by a cold knot of anxiety low in his belly. He has never been so torn. He can feel warm, swollen wetness between his legs, the feast laid out before him is plain to see, and yet he's afraid to take his place at the table.

“Aramis,” says Porthos quietly. “When have I ever judged?”

Mis is startled into a laugh. “You're a copper for Christ's sake. You called that woman in the Co-op a chain-smoking breeder of ASBO candidates, and you think anyone who drinks Carling should be rejected from A&E for sheer stupidity.”

“No, you idiot. I mean judged you.”

Mis looks down. “Yeah, okay,” he admits.

“And stop trying to change the subject.”

Mis favours his own knees with a twisted, tense smile, and nervously meets Porthos's eyes. He can see Porthos trying to frame something in his mind, and cuts him off before he can say it.

“It's not – I know what you're going to say. I want this. I do. No more waiting. It's just...” He trails off.

“Big step?”

“Yeah. That.”

Porthos's arms, warm and enormous, engulf him. He feels himself relax instinctively, and for once lets himself cling.

“I'm right here,” Porthos murmurs. “I've got you. I won't let you fall.”

Tears well suddenly in Aramis's throat. “Stop being so bloody perfect,” he chokes out. Porthos just holds him tighter.

“I love you,” says Porthos.

Mis's stomach swoops again and he sits back, holding Porthos at arm's length. A hundred responses flit through his mind – _fucking hell_ and _you were saving that, you expected the freakout, you bastard_ and _I don't believe you_ and _don't be fucking stupid it's as plain as day_ _isn't it_ and the one that comes out of his mouth is a sort of overwhelmed “Ah!”.

He comes forward, and Porthos meets him half way. He knows this kiss by now, and yet it's still electric, fuelling the heat in his groin; Porthos tugs him closer, and his empty cunt clamps down on nothing as his slick lips slide and tingle. He can feel his clit, or cock, or whatever the hell it is these days, nudging insistently upward at the top of his slit. It feels amazing, to be hard and wet at the same time; everything he is in that one ripe sensation. Porthos slips a hand underneath his T-shirt, spreads it on his back, and kisses his neck. Mis shudders, and twists his neck, exposing the sensitive line down to his shoulder.

He's grasping the hem of his T-shirt before he realises it, wanting simply to feel Porthos's skin against his – he freezes for half a second, sees Porthos's half-lustful, half encouraging little nod, and lifts it up and off over his head.

He's been oddly shy since the dressings came off. Prudish almost, as if he still has breasts to conceal. This is the first time he's ever let Porthos see him like this, unadorned.

Porthos's warm hand comes up to touch his side. His eyes flick down, take in the scars – still red, though thinning and peeling a little now. They move on down, over Mis's belly, and back up, tracing the contours of his pecs and collarbone.

“You look good,” he says at last.

And Mis drops his head onto Porthos's shoulder, lets out a sound that's a mix of sob and laugh. He'd ask how he could ever have doubted Porthos, but – this is what it means to be trans. To question the most basic principles of your own humanity time and again, because that's just the world. His whole being praises God that he should have been given someone like Porthos to be his support.

He presses Porthos down and stretches himself along the bare skin beneath him. Porthos sighs. And Mis swings his leg across Porthos's hips, solid and wide under his own; his underwear is soaked, and he barely feels friction as he grinds down on the ridge of Porthos's cock.

Porthos moans and his hands close on Mis's jeans-clad arse. Mis twists his hips, circling, squeezing his little cock rhythmically against the cloth. Porthos swears.

“Let's do this naked,” he groans.

And it wouldn't be sex if there wasn't a moment of farcical inelegance, really; the tangle of jeans and uncooperative socks, the flashes of bum cheek and intoxicating skin. Porthos grabs his arm, tugs him back to straddle his groin once more. Mis eases down, lets skin touch skin, increases the pressure until Porthos moans.

He's so wet. A few little movements spread it until he can feel, oh God, the head of his cock sliding softly over Porthos's own. The broad upcurving ridge of Porthos's shaft nestles into him, filling the empty space between his lips, and Mis can't help but reach down to touch himself, adding the friction he can't quite get otherwise. His cunt tightens again, and this time Porthos reacts with a sound.

They pause; hanging on the crest of a wave in their own steady rhythm.

“Lube?”

“Not gonna need it.”

They've both tested clean, they knew this was coming – Porthos's hand joins Mis's, takes hold of his cock to position it, and Mis takes a second to drink in the feel of its head nudging into his folds before he begins to work himself slowly down. Porthos is thick, stretching him a little; he feels a faint sting, pauses and slides up again, coating Porthos with his slippery desire. Third time's the charm and as Porthos sheaths himself fully they both let out a sound.

Pause again; Mis accommodating the feel of Porthos inside him, relaxing himself consciously, wriggling just a little to feel the twist and the weight.

“Yeah?” says Porthos.

“Yeah,” says Mis, and Porthos begins to move.

Few times in his life has Mis been so utterly turned on; every movement feels magnified, as if his cunt comes up to meet his lungs. God, if he'd known what the waiting would do he'd never have had the patience. He leans down and kisses Porthos, moans at the invasion of his tongue, filled from head to toe with his lover's lust. Porthos palms his arse, works their hips steadily together, and Mis feels a bloom of pleasure as Porthos hits his cervix. He sits down hard, and shifts his weight to reach his hand between his legs again.

Porthos's hand crashes into his; Mis lets him slide his thumb under his clit-o-dick –  _clickoris, liquorice, dickoris allsorts_ sings his brain – and gasps as the broad pad swipes across the sensitive head. He grabs for the lube, leans back to add a little, and Porthos begins to work on him in earnest. He's stretched wide over Porthos's huge frame, legs spread as far as they'll reach, driving down onto Porthos who meets his every stroke; and he's tightening, gripping the smooth-rough cock within him, crushing himself onto its soft head and revelling in the feeling.

His hips start to move of their own volition, jerking down, seeking a different friction; and he feels it gathering, somewhere behind his abs.

“I'm getting close,” he gasps, and Porthos, God love him, doesn't change one single thing. Mis flexes forward, directing Porthos's thumb over the most sensitive part of his cock, and Porthos thrusts up with gusto into his pink and giving hole.

He hangs on the edge for what feels like forever, clit screaming for the right touch, the right slide, the right pressure – and it takes him by surprise, exploding through his womb, his tightness, his throbbing, aching cock. Dimly he's aware that he's screaming raggedly into Porthos's neck and the pillow. Porthos wraps his arms around Mis and thrusts hard, provoking aftershocks that drive Mis's thighs apart still further. His body devours every inch of Porthos's cock as he's plastered against that solid, sweaty chest.

He feels Porthos swell inside him, his arm tense and hold them together tightly, and then a flood of warmth as Porthos chokes on a moan. Porthos. Inside him.  _Coming_ . He hasn't got words.

 

They drift for a long while, Mis panting, his throat raw. Porthos is boneless, his arm like a weight on Mis's back.

“You,” he huffs into Porthos's jawline, “you.”

Porthos gives an inarticulate sound.

 

They don't speak, even after consciousness returns and they peel reluctantly apart to clean up and restore order. There isn't any need. The words have been and gone, and this is what they left in their wake; this quiet, private, musky unity.

 

_I love you_ . He'll have to remember to say it once they're awake.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary for American readers: 
> 
> ASBO: Anti-social Behaviour Order. Recent UK law enabling police to curb persistent pains in the arse.  
> A&E = emergency room  
> Carling = widely reviled brand of lager, often drunk by nob-ends who start fights in bars
> 
> Notes
> 
> Apologies for the long long downtime, but this series is very personal for me and I wasn't in a place to write this at the beginning of the year. Life's still changing and developing in a lot of ways, and I finally feel it's the right moment to do this :)
> 
> On the subject of this chapter – I've heard it said that sex, for men, is “a primal form of giving”. I think Mis and Porthos would say the same. So happy new year again - and since I've only just discovered it exists, happy new series too! (I love living under a rock, you get the best surprises :) )
> 
> In other news, my spellchecker looked at “clit-o-dick” and suggested “left-click”. #dying


End file.
